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“I—” Platt goggled at me. “Kitsey.” He seemed rattled. He dug his hands in the bellows pockets of his field coat. “She’s been held up,” he said to his mother.

Mrs. Barbour looked startled. “Oh,” she said. They looked at each other and some unspoken something seemed to pass between them.

“Held…

“Right,” I said politely, going into the kitchen and pouring myself a huge vodka. [...]

I knew it was an extremely petty cavil that Kitsey never seemed very moved by anything.